Turning Point
by LaraThorne
Summary: An AU Season Finale for the CD Super Challenge. Chapter 9/9 posted.
1. Los Angeles

** Title: ** Turning Point  
** Authors: ** Lara and Thorne  
** E-mail: **laras_dice@yahoo.com and akathorne@hotmail.com  
** Website URLs:** http://www.geocities.com/laras_dice and http://www.geocities.com/thorne06/  
** Distribution:** CD, all others please ask.  
** Disclaimer:** Alias is owned by ABC and was created by J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot, not Lara or Thorne. Sadly.  
** Summary:** An AU Season Finale for the CD Super Challenge.  
** Rating:** R, for some violence, sexuality, and adult situations  
** Classification:** Drama/Angst 

Author's Notes:

Lara: Thank you, Thorne, for putting up with my nuttiness, among a million other things. This was an absolute blast to work on. And of course, thanks as well to Hill and CD.

Thorne: Thank you to Lara, first of all, because this was so much fun. Well, for more than that, but I'm not getting sappy here. Thanks to JJ Abrams and all the actors for giving us such great stuff to write about. And thanks to Hill for the challenge – it was a good one.

* * *

He jerked back into consciousness in the back seat of a dark, plush Towncar. After a long trip, filled with his questions and no answers, two men had carried him from the car into this building. One of them had shot him — killed him, he had thought at the time. Obviously not, because he was here — very much alive and in pain. The coolness of the floor felt good against the bruise on his cheek.

"What now?" the slight blonde man asked, from somewhere overhead.

"You shot me!" he cried.

"Silence, Mr. Tippin," the blonde's voice was filled with soft menace, and he looked toward a vaguely familiar woman, who witnessed all of this without a visible reaction.

"That is not your concern, Mr. Sark." she said, accent clearly Russian. A nod told him Sark was dismissed, and Will was left staring up at her.

* * *

**L**os Angeles

Vaughn waited for her at the warehouse, shoulders tense. Something was wrong, something was very wrong; she wondered how he ever made it through CIA training when he telegraphed every emotion so clearly.

Sydney squared her shoulders. "What happened?"

He broke the news to her softly, gently — the charred rag in his hands the harshest part of the delivery. Yesterday Will had been wearing this gray sweatshirt. It still smelled of him, faint under the burnt scent.

"The safehouse was compromised. Someone broke in, and burned the place down." A pause and he avoided her eyes as he continued. "He's dead. Sydney, I'm so sorry."

"No. No no no, how did this happen? What – no, this can't be happening!" Sydney's words tumbled out. "He was supposed to be safe, I told him – Vaughn, I told him he would be safe there! I promised him!"

"I know, but, Sydney, listen to me. Listen! You cannot blame yourself. There was nothing you could do. No one expected ...no one expected this to happen. We all thought he was safe," Vaughn said, his voice low and urgent. He inched forward when the sobs began, and then the only thing she felt was the warmth of his arms. His voice was soft in her ear, telling her again and again that it wasn't her fault, that he was sorry. That they would find whoever did this and make them pay.


	2. London

Londo**n**

Their instructions were very clear: she must dead by the morning. He had seen them coming even before he walked into the meeting, the word "remission" both glorious and horrible on his lips.

And when the instructions came, he was ready with a response. SD-6 was one of the most productive cells of the Alliance — one they would lose if he was forced to leave.

They had planned for his response, countered it with the one thing that had been his mission all along — upward mobility. It was available to him, after so many years of plotting, if he would only do the one thing that was inevitable whether he did it or not.

She remained mostly silent during the drive to the bed and breakfast, commented on the beauty and peace of the place as they checked in. And it would have been a nice place for her to recover in, he reflected, if that had been the reason for the trip.

It was not, however. He told her this only after they had unpacked, decided to walk down by a nearby stream.

He wanted to lay it all out for her then, the real history of his last few decades. But there was no explanation, nothing he could say that would not put her in more danger than she already was. He handed them to her — plane ticket, new papers and cards, new identity — and told her she had to leave now. That she was in danger greater than she could imagine. That he would take care of the rest.

And then he told her that he loved her, for the last time.


	3. Tirana

Ti**r**ana

She hadn't wanted to go. Sydney shouldn't have been here, in Tirana, at this stuffy cocktail party trying to hide her grief from Dixon. However, Vaughn had made it very clear to her that, as far as SD-6 was concerned, Will Tippin could not be dead yet. Rumors of the safehouse fire had spread throughout the intelligence community, and Will's coincidental death at the same time would have been suspicious. Might have blown her cover. Vaughn had explained all of this softly, told her she could call him any time, but that Will's death had to remain a secret for now. Let her have one more good cry before she left the warehouse — went out into the world where Will Tippin was still "alive."

The safe was a simple model — she had seen one just like it last year in Paris. Marshall already had a gadget for it — a rather attractive brooch, she had to admit.

This part had become routine for her, and she pulled the leather pouch out, CIA camera in hand and ready.

But when she slid the document from the cracked leather, her reality shifted. Will Tippin's innocent eyes came into view as she unrolled the parchment His face, from the angular cheekbones to the unruly curls, was clearly detailed on Rambaldi's document.


	4. Los Angeles

Los **A**ngeles

Sydney was beginning to think that if she made another lap around this damn warehouse without talking about the document in her hands, she might just go insane.

She heard the door creak open and Vaughn's familiar footsteps. She wanted to run to meet him and show him what she had found, but she forced herself to stop and be still.

"Did you bring the code key?" she asked.

"Yeah, I have it," he replied. "What the hell is going on, Sydney?"

She held up the rolled parchment as he approached, stopping a few feet away from her. "I told SD-6 I didn't get it."

"Sydney! Your countermission was to photograph the page, not take the document. When SD-6 finds out — "

"— SD-6 cannot ever find out," she said, hands a little shaky as she started to unroll the document.

She handed him it to him wordlessly. He scanned the sketch of Will with visible apprehension.

"This looks like — " he started, but she cut him off, unable to stay quiet any longer.

"It is. It is Will. First my mother and now my best friend. Vaughn, I need to know what this says about him," Sydney heard the tremor in her voice as the words tumbled out.

Vaughn studied her face for a moment, then nodded. "Ok, let's figure it out. But we don't have much time. I need to get the code key back before they realize it's missing."

Vaughn reached out, lightly touched her shoulder. "We will figure it out, Sydney. Okay?" He watched her carefully, waiting for her assent.

She dipped her head, took a deep breath. "Okay," she whispered.

* * *

Sydney tried to stop thinking about Will during the drive home from the warehouse. She and Vaughn had only managed to translate a tiny bit of the Rambaldi document before he had to return the code key to the CIA. She heaved a frustrated sigh as she retrieved her suitcase from the car trunk and stopped to pick up the mail. She flipped through the bills and junk mail and stopped suddenly in the middle of the walkway.

She held the envelope in her hand, not quite able to believe it. It certainly looked like a lie, but this time, it wasn't one of her own. She scanned the UCLA envelope — "Final Drop Notice" on the front in bold black letters above Francie's name — one last time, just to be sure. The words were still the same, and she braced herself, ready for a confrontation, as she opened the door.

Francie was only a few feet away, ready to leave, apparently. "This came for you," Sydney said, holding up the envelope.

"Oh," was the only response she got.

"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is." Francie only shook her head in response. "Francie, when did you decide to do this? Why didn't you tell me?" Sydney asked.

Francie walked away from the doorway, toward their living room, and motioned for Sydney to follow. She sat on the couch, and took a long pause before she began. "I filed the paperwork about two weeks ago, and I was going to tell you, but — " Franice's voice trailed off.

"— A couple weeks! Francie, how could you not tell me?" Sydney interrupted.

"Syd, you're so busy, I hardly ever see you. I had just broken up with Charlie, and I saw you with that add/drop form. I started thinking, 'maybe this isn't what I want to do with my life.' And by the time I made my decision, you were back to juggling school, and your job, and I just didn't know how to say it."

"So when you told me you had a huge exam last week, that was a lie? When you met me after class for lunch, there was no class? Francie, I can't believe you would keep this from me!"

"Syd, I know, and I'm sorry. It just kind of got away from me, like one little lie turned into a bigger lie, and it got out of control," Fran explained.

"It got away from you? I'm your best friend, Francie! We live together! You could have told me a thousand ti— "

"I did try to tell you! You could have tried paying attention! But you had your own worries, the bank, tests, papers for your classes. You and Will always have some big crisis that you are in the middle of dealing with, and neither one of you have even noticed anything that's been going on in my life!" Francie shouted.

"Francie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I haven't been here much lately, but…there is — there are a lot of things — " Sydney started to explain.

"Yeah, I know, things I don't understand, things that are more important to you than your friends," Francie's voice was uncharacteristically bitter as she finished Sydney's sentence. Silence filled the room as they avoided each other's eyes. Just as Sydney opened her mouth to reply, the trill of the telephone broke the quiet. Francie snatched the phone from its cradle before it rang again.

"Hello? No. No! Listen, there is no pizza place at this number! You have got to stop calling here," Francie's voice grew louder with each word, until she was shouting into the receiver. She threw the phone down on the coffee table, and turned to face Sydney, who stood abruptly.

"I can't…Francie. I can't do this right now. I can't…I have to go. I — I'm going to take a walk and think about some things. We'll talk when I get back, ok? I mean," Sydney blinked through the tears that sprang to her eyes. "We'll really talk. And I'll listen," Sydney promised as she headed towards the door, leaving Francie staring after her in angry disbelief.


	5. San Francisco

San Francisc**o**

It was too much for anyone to handle, she thought, trying not to white-knuckle the steering wheel any more than she already was. It had been too much before, in her formerly sane life, when her friends were reasonably normal. It had been too much before Francie perfected her lying skills well enough to fool someone who did it for a living. It had been too much before Will had died — or had he? She had been unable to shake the idea that he might be alive and missing, a possibility that had been ringing quietly in her head since her first glance at the Rambaldi document.

And then this — a terse note from Vaughn telling her to meet him at a hotel just outside of San Francisco. No explanation, just an address, and a room number. She pulled into a parking space, her fight with Francie and her grief over Will still spiraling through her thoughts. She felt as though she could hardly hold herself together as she scanned the parking lot for observers.

The place was a run-of-the-mill Holiday Inn clone, as far as she could tell. Thousands like it across the country, and she had spent time in more than her fair share. Thousands of hotels, hundreds of rooms each, and she wondered just how many were used for meetings like this. She walked casually — a pace that belied the blood pounding through her — up one flight of stairs.

The shades to room 207 were drawn. About to knock, she caught herself when she noticed a keycard sitting on the windowsill, and she darted a hand out to grab it. She found that hand was shaking slightly as she fed it through the lock and let herself in.

He was sitting, quietly, on the edge of the bed, lit only by the dim lamp next to the bed. Looking much the same as he had earlier in the day, but more rumpled — more exhausted. More like he had something horrible to tell her.

Sydney made sure she included the deadbolt when she locked the door behind her.

"Vaughn?" Her voice wavered — part nerves, part leftover emotion from the rest of the day. "What's going on? Why couldn't we meet in LA?"

"Sydney, I think you should sit down before I tell you this."

She considered protesting — telling him that she could handle whatever he had to say just as well standing — but something in his eyes made her walk over to the bed. She sat, heart pounding, next to him, and he turned to face her.

"What I'm about to tell you, Sydney, I'm not even supposed to know. It's all Omega-17 — that's why we had to meet here," he paused. "The CIA has records of Will making repeated contact with a source inside Khasinau's organization."

This was not the giant shock she had been bracing herself against. "I know that, Vaughn. He was working on a story."

"That's not all. We recovered the security feed from what's left of the safehouse. Will engineered his own escape, Syd. It looks like he's been working with The Man all along."

"That's impossible!" she exclaimed, finding that she could not remotely reconcile the idea that her friend — sweet, kind Will, who bluffed so badly at poker, who let her cry on his couch — could also be a spy. "Vaughn, he's one of my best friends. There is absolutely no way that Will could — he was just…he was just my friend, Vaughn. Not a spy. He couldn't — wait. Escape? Will ESCAPED? Are you sure? Do you know where he is?"

"No, I don't know where he is," Vaughn replied, watching Sydney. "But…it looks like at least two people walked away from that fire. And there is some intermittent audio — Will discussing the escape with another man. The CIA is still looking into who could have helped him."

"No. No! Vaughn, I've known him for three years! I would have picked up on something, some clue, some hint that he was not what he seemed!"

He took a moment to consider this. "How did you meet Will?"

"He was working on an article for the school newspaper. He walked up to me in the student union and asked if I had time for an interview. It was completely random."

"Sydney, it wasn't random at all."

She recalled the SD-6 recruiter standing in front of her, holding a simple business card — a phone number only — and felt the urge to burst into tears. Sydney found herself able to fight that, but her voice wobbled as she spoke next. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you meeting him, becoming friends. It wasn't random at all. I think they wanted him to use his relationship with you as a means of getting intel on SD-6."

Sydney shook her head, and her trembling hand came up to cover her mouth. "Vaughn. Why does everyone I care about lie to me? Why…why isn't anything in my life real?"

"Sydney, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Vaughn's voice was soft as he tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. She leaned into the warm comfort of him, let the tears come freely. He rubbed her back gently, hands making slow, warm circles up and down her spine. "It's not your fault. You trusted him. You wanted to believe the best."

"No, it is my fault. I — I brought this on myself. I never should have — I shouldn't," Sydney sobbed, her words muffled by her tears.

"No, no, Sydney, listen," Vaughn's voice became urgent, and he took her wet face in his hands. "Listen to me. This was not your fault. I believe in you, you know that. There was nothing you could have done differently. Some people just can't be trusted." His words sent shivers through her.

"And some people can be," she whispered. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, let her lips brush his, lightly. He responded instantly, lips warm under hers, like he had been waiting for this kiss for years. His thumb stroked her damp cheek as she slid onto his lap. She wanted him. She wanted to drown herself in his comfort and his hands, all over her, all through her. She wanted Vaughn to tell her that she could always trust him, that he would never do anything to hurt her. He was the only person she would ever believe that from again.

But he was silent at first. Maybe, she thought, he felt comforting words were too obvious — not needed — clear from his actions and voiced already a thousand times since she had known him. Clear from his touch now, fingers tracing delicately down her jaw, neck, shoulder. And then his hands, both on her back, pulling her deeper into the heat of his body. He drew his head back — just slightly — and whispered something around her mouth. "Sydney. You can always trust me," she thought, his words too soft to be completely clear. She realized she did not need the words, only the sentiment, and that had been apparent all along. And then she could only moan in response as his lips started on the same path his fingers had just taken — jaw, neck, and just as light and tender.

His lips returned to hers, then — this kiss more fierce, more passionate — his mouth even more reassuring with this new insistence. His hands were firm on her body as they slipped from her back, down her sides. Over her stomach, now, pushing to increase the scant space between them, enough to move up, up, up, and they were hot on her breasts, and his mouth was even hotter on hers. She leaned into the touch, but it was gone quickly, his fingers working carefully on the first button of her blouse, and yes, she thought, he would give her everything she wanted, and she would forget all the lies and betrayal. Remember only him, as his fingers slipped down to the second button, everything she needed, and —

"Sydney, we can't do this."

She didn't understand his words for a second, but as he pulled back from her, it became clear. The tears he has kissed away sprang to her eyes again, and she tried to wipe them from her face before he saw. She should have known this was too good to be true.

"Sydney?" Vaughn sounded worried, but she refused to look at him, pulling her shirt back together as she twisted away. "Sydney — this isn't right. You're — you have too much on your mind right now. You just found out that your best friend lied to you for years, and we can't — you shouldn't do… this when you are so upset."

Sydney sniffled, and swept her tears away with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. "OK. You're right. I need to find Will, I need to …not think about things that — " her voice hitched. "Things that shouldn't happen."

She could feel more tears coming, and didn't want him to see them. He had seen enough already, made her feel like he could do something about them, and in the end only caused more. Vaughn — just another part of the _everything_ wrong with her life. Sydney stood and strode to the door, yanked at the knob and was surprised to find that it went nowhere. Right, deadbolt.

"Sydney, don't leave like this." She could hear him stand behind her, take a few steps forward as she fumbled with the lock. Finally successful, she flung the door open and rushed outside, just as the tears began again in earnest. Vaughn called her name once again, but she knew he would not follow — couldn't risk them being seen together, even this far from Los Angeles.


	6. Credit Dauphine

Credit Daup**h**ine

Marshall cornered her as soon as she walked into SD-6 - the last person she wanted to see at that point, until she heard what he had to say.

"Miss Bristow? Are you busy now, because we need to go over the op-tech for your trip to Berlin and you are not going to believe this cell phone I made to crack the safe, I mean like, wow, because I didn't think the infrared in was going to work, and then there was the magnet to work around, and it's all encrypted — "

"Marshall?" She had spoken his name several times already, but it often took this long to get Marshall to focus. "Where did you say I was going again?"

"Berlin, Miss Bristow. You're going after The Man, and his base is in a museum in the Kulturforum district, and the security is really tight, which is why you're going to need the cell phone, because in addition to cracking the safe, it will override the security cameras." He held up the phone, looking pleased. "I know it's just black right now, but if you tell me what color dress you're going to wear, I can put a different cover on it, you know, so you can match and everything."

She gave him as much smile as she could muster. "Good work, Marshall." The fact that he seemed to glow from her praise, she thought, might have actually been the most positive thing about her day. He responded with a quiet "Thank you, Miss Bristow," as she turned to start the short walk to Sloane's office.

If Will worked for The Man, she thought, this was her best lead to find him. And that was the only thing she wanted right now — to find him, make him explain to her just how he could betray her trust all these years. Find an answer to one of the questions pummeling her mind and perhaps it would ease the pain of the others.

Sloane was sitting quietly at his desk, staring into space — something he had been doing frequently as of late — as she walked into his office. "Hello, Sydney. What can I do for you?"

"Marshall told me about Berlin. I was just wondering when Dixon and I are leaving. I'd like to go as soon as possible — I've got an exam next week I need to study for."

"Sydney, you and Dixon aren't going to Berlin. We're sending Davis and Herrington. I know we've been working you awfully hard lately and I thought you could use a break." Sloane spread a slow smile across his face, one that was supposed to be kind and caring, she thought, but translated into creepy instead.

"No!" A little strong, that, and she backpedaled. "I mean, I really don't mind another mission, and you know how important it is for me to find Khasinau. To find my mom."

"Sydney, I understand that." He gave her the smile again. "But you look exhausted. I couldn't possibly send you out into the field in this condition."

"Are you sure?" He nodded, and Sydney knew she couldn't push the subject any further. "In that case…maybe I will take some time off, to study. If that's okay?"

"Of course."

She barely avoided the urge to sprint out of his office.

* * *

He respected Marcus Dixon. Collected and well beyond competent, Dixon was an agent who did his job without asking any questions or requiring any intervention. That - as far as Sloane was concerned — was the way an agent should operate, and so it surprised him to when he looked up from his desk to see Dixon standing in his doorway.

"I'm sorry, sir. Do you have a moment?" His voice was quiet, expression almost mournful. He was holding a manila envelope in his hand.

"Of course, Dixon. Have a seat." Sloane gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, and had a feeling he was not going to like the contents of the envelope.

Dixon sat slowly, then handed him the envelope, everything about the motion hesitant. He remained silent as Sloane opened the flap and slid the contents out, thinking that his instinct had been right.

"I didn't want to believe it. But she's been acting very suspiciously lately. So I followed her, to this hotel outside San Francisco — "

Pictures. First Sydney Bristow, entering a hotel room.

" — and she went in. I thought , I guess I hoped, that maybe she was having an affair, but she wasn't in the room long enough. And then the guy — "

Now a tear-stricken Sydney leaving the room.

"— the guy in the pictures left about a half hour after her."

The next picture showed a disturbingly familiar face — a man Sloane recognized instantly. He swallowed this realization, kept it down, and stayed impassive for Dixon. A long pause, as he stared at the photographs, just to be sure, and to formulate what he needed to say next.

"I want to thank you for bringing what you felt was suspicious activity by one of our agents to my attention, Marcus. I am well aware of Sydney's presence at the hotel; she is working on a classified operation and I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that."

An effective speech, he thought, because Dixon nodded. Looked relieved as he stood and exited the office. And as far as Dixon was concerned, the situation was under control.

Sloane knew that couldn't be further from the truth. He also knew he needed to find Jack Bristow — immediately.

* * *

Jack was agitated — beyond agitated, in fact — but it should have all been internal. No nervousness showing, no tension apparent — nothing to show the world that he had called his daughter three times in the last six hours and received no response. That her handler had, according to a friend at the CIA, decided to take a little vacation time. That the CIA still had not recovered Will Tippin's body.

Which made for three missing people — two of them likely in search of the other one. She had been foolish to go to Vaughn, he thought, however trustworthy she thought he was. Someone at the CIA had compromised the safehouse, and as far as he was concerned, that made everyone at the CIA untrustworthy. Especially, he thought, when she could have gone to him. He did not allow himself to wonder why she hadn't.

Instead, he walked through SD-6 headquarters stone-faced, searching for an empty room — a place to think, to be alone. Successful, finally, in an abandoned office, and he sat and tried to guess where his daughter could have gone.

He was not alone for long, his silent reverie interrupted when Arvin Sloane slipped into the room, a manila envelope in his hand. The door clicked shut behind him.

"Jack, I've been looking for you. We need to talk." And then he reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a pricey-looking pen, and pulled at the tip until it emitted a quiet beep. He looked up at Jack, expression an insidious sort of clever. "What? You don't think I know what you've been doing with these, Jack? I know more than you think I know."

He paused, let that rattle through the air for a few moments. "For example, Jack, I know right now that you have no idea where Sydney is. I do, Jack — Berlin. But we have greater concerns right now."

Sloane tilted the envelope, let the contents spill out onto the desk. Pictures, he thought, staring at them. Pictures that would get his daughter killed, if she hadn't been already. They threw him, but not so much that he couldn't maintain his composure — internal and external. There was an age-old explanation for why two attractive young people would be leaving a hotel room, he thought, and he would run with that, and it would work. It had to.

"I assume this man is Sydney's CIA handler?" Jack's expression held, but his internal composure was gone. They were skipping steps here, he thought. There should have been more suspicion, fewer matter-of-fact statements of her "betrayal" of SD-6.

"Jack, I know you and Sydney work for the CIA." Perhaps his expression had been slipping, he thought. And besides, there was no point in holding it with that fact out. He tried instead to quell the dread rising in him. "I know, Jack, because I also work for the CIA."

That was not where he had expected this to go. Not at all. He wanted time to formulate a better question, but knew there wasn't any. "How long?"

"Since the very beginning, Jack. The CIA wanted to place someone who could eventually rise to the top of the Alliance, make it crumble from within. And I am almost there. I have not broken cover in almost 20 years, but I need to tell you this." Sloane pointed to the third picture in the pile. "This man is not who Sydney thinks he is. I did not know the details of her case. I would have told you long ago if I had. This is Michael Vaughn, yes?"

Jack nodded slightly.

"He is a mole for The Man. Sydney went to Berlin to try to find Khasinau, Jack, and if she is with this Vaughn — if she trusts him — it will get her killed. You have to stop her."

Sloane's tale had been bizarre but believable up until that revelation. But now Jack found himself doubting the entire story, wondering just what Sloane's true agenda was. Where his allegiances really were. "What makes you possibly think I could trust you, after everything you've done?"

"You can't afford not to trust me, Jack. Your daughter would be dead by now — dead a thousand times over, Jack — if you couldn't trust me." Sloane glanced at his watch, and Jack knew they had to be running out of time. "I'll give you as much time as you need to go to Berlin, but I want you to stop by my office — give me 20 minutes — first. I'll give you something that may help. And one more thing, Jack — "

Beep.

He entered Sloane's office 20 minutes later, nothing on his face, or Sloane's, to indicate that the earlier revelations had occurred.

"Jack," Sloane said, proffering a file folder. "I was wondering if you might take a look at this, when you get a chance. I don't want Metzger to ruin our operation."

Jack walked up to the desk and took the file, labeled "Lukas Metzger." Metzger, he knew, was a K-Directorate operative based in Berlin. He spoke, voice even and terse — "I'll look into it" — before giving Sloane a brief nod and spinning on his foot to exit.

Fortunately, there were no distractions during the walk to his car, but it was long enough as it was — curiosity draining his patience. Still, he waited until he was safely inside the car, door shut and parking garage checked carefully for activity. Then, and only then, did he flip open the folder.

The first two pages were part of Metzger's file — standard intelligence — and their relatively banal appearance made the third even more shocking. A large, glossy black-and-white photograph, it showed a man, shot point-blank in the forehead. There were two more photographs after it — same man, same gunshot wound, different angles — and then a terse note from Sloane.

"By my best estimate, Michael Vaughn was recruited by Khasinau's organization at 17 or 18, with the purpose of placing him as a mole in the CIA. I am sorry to have to tell you this way, but you should know that Irina Derevko also works in Khasinau's organization, and the younger Vaughn does not believe that she killed his father. Instead, he believes his father was recruited by Khasinau and has been involved in a deep-cover mission since Derevko helped to fake his death. Obviously, these photographs prove otherwise, and I imagine they would go a long way in convincing Mr. Vaughn to switch his allegiances."

He flipped back to the photographs — more evidence of his wife's handiwork — one last time, wondering if Sydney had already discovered now any of the truths he had just learned. Then he snapped the folder shut, put the car in drive, his mind already on the mission ahead of him.

* * *

Will thought he had been locked in the tiny room for at least three days now, although he had no real way to gauge the passing of time. No windows, and it was a bit musty, so he assumed he was in the basement of somewhere. Where, was the real question, though, and he had no answer to that.

He hadn't been beaten since he had arrived here, and they fed him twice a day — boredom was currently his greatest aggravation. So when he heard voices approaching in the hallway outside, he stood, walked to the door and pressed his ear against it, hoping to glean some sort of knowledge about his situation, the woman's plans for him.

He had nicknamed her R.B. — Russian Bitch — in his mind, and it was her voice he heard most frequently, but he had not seen her since the first day. This time, he thought, she seemed downright pleasant.

"I am so glad you were able to make it for my opening," R.B. said. "It's good to see you again, and I hate to talk about business tonight, but I must ask you how things are progressing."

She paused, and then Will heard a male voice respond. "They're, ah, not progressing very well. Sydney, well, she's not going to be easy to turn. She's — "

That name sharpened his attention even more, and he pressed closer to the door. How, he wondered, could this man, and R.B., possibly know Sydney? And was she in danger?

" — you have already told me she is very headstrong. It was evident even when she was a child. But I am tired of hearing about my daughter second-hand. I want her here, do you understand that?"

Daughter, the next word that jumped out at Will, and he thought for a moment that it had to all be a bizarre coincidence. Sydney's mother had died when she was young, and certainly couldn't be R.B. But how many Sydneys could there be in whatever it was he was mixed up in? And after Paris, he had to admit to himself that that he wasn't sure he knew anything at all about Sydney's secret life.

There was silence for a moment, and then R.B. spoke again. "You have my permission to do whatever it takes to get my daughter on my side. Have I made myself clear?"

There was a long pause before the man spoke again. "I understand," was all he said.

Will sat, then, on the floor — they hadn't provided him anything beyond a blanket for comfort — and tried to make sense of what he had just heard. But it made no sense — nothing lately had — and the only thing he felt with any certainty was a deep sense of dread for his friend.


	7. Berlin

Be**r**lin

Sydney stood in the line forming in front of the entrance to the Kulturforum Plaza. The line was moving, but not quickly enough. She wanted to be inside and looking around before it got too crowded. Sydney looked down at her simple black evening gown and heels, pulled them from her own closet this time — no extensive wardrobe departments to choose from. Coming here in her own clothes, with her own face and name, alone — it was incredibly dangerous. She felt naked without a persona to hide behind; exposed without Vaughn or Dixon to back her up. But she wasn't here as an agent, and the only thing she was interested in was finding Will Tippin and getting the truth from him.

"Gutenabend, Fräulein. Einladung, bitte?" the doorman held his hand out for her stolen invitation, and she smiled as she handed it to him. He barely glanced at it before waving her inside.

"Danke," she murmured, as she stepped into the atrium, automatically scanning the hall for security. The crowd was still small, and it was easy to slip into a strategic place to the side of the entry. Sydney wanted to see every person who walked in. She would find The Man, and he would lead her to Will.

Syd took a glass of champagne and drained half to steady her nerves; she had never realized how much she depended on backup until she was without it. She watched the museum patrons filter in from the doorway, all dressed in their evening wear, all looking perfectly at ease, none of them suspicious.

Someone in the entryway caught her eye. No. She was mistaken, she had to be mistaken. But as he turned and saw her, the worry on his face was clear. "No, Vaughn, no, you did not follow me here," she breathed. Sydney put her glass down immediately and walked toward him, trying to move slowly and not attract the attention of anyone who might be surveilling the party.

She was three paces away from him when he seemed to seemed to realize she was walking up to him in public. Vaughn looked away from her, instantly avoiding eye contact. Sydney was suddenly aware of just how dangerous this situation was, and fixed her gaze over his shoulder, intending to keep moving toward the atrium. She brushed past him, almost gasping aloud when she felt his hand close around her arm. Sydney almost stumbled, and swung around, coming face to face with Vaughn.

"Vaughn, you shouldn't — " Sydney started, but he cut her off.

"Listen, Sydney," he took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

Sydney started to argue that it wasn't safe for him to be there, but she swallowed her questions as he led her to a set of marble stairs going down to the museum's basement. As they moved away from the party, the only sound she could hear was the muffled echo of their shoes and the pounding of her heart. They both checked the hall for pursuers, but they were alone.

Vaughn let go of her arm, and pulled a key from his pocket. He motioned her to precede him into the room, clicking on the light as she took in her surroundings. Desk, bookshelves, computer, and a vintage leather couch — they were in the museum director's office. She spun to face him as he shut and locked the door behind him.

"Vaughn, what are you doing here?" she demanded. "How did you find me? What is going on?" Sydney strode toward him, tense and agitated. "Do you have a lead on Will?"

"Will?" he paused, looked startled. "No, this isn't about Will. Sydney, please just — just sit down and let me explain." Vaughn's eyes held hers, and Sydney stared at him for a moment, wanted to continue her questioning. Something in his eyes, both pleading and compelling, made her take a deep breath, turn, and sit silently on the couch.

Vaughn's eyes left hers as she sat, and shifted to the floor. She watched as he took a deep breath, paced a quick lap from the couch to the desk. She tried to be patient, but just as she was about to start questioning him again, he turned back to her.

"Sydney, I — I, ah, followed you because you came here for answers. Answers from Will," he paused, waited for her to nod agreement. "But Sydney, there isn't anything he can say to you — nothing will make what he did less painful. I don't want you to get hurt again."

Whatever his reasons for following her, she had not expected their conversation to take this turn.

"Vaughn…" She started to respond, but he cut her off.

"No, Sydney, I need to say this, ok? What happened between us…" he sighed another deep breath, and then sat next to her on the couch, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

"What happened in San Francisco," he began again, "it was the wrong time, Sydney. You were so upset, so vulnerable. It — it would have been wrong." Vaughn stared at the floor intently.

"But Sydney, you have to believe me," he turned to her suddenly, and she found herself riveted by his eyes as his words rolled over her. "There is nothing that I have ever wanted more." His hand came up to her face, stroked her cheek lightly. His gaze flickered to her mouth, and without conscious thought, she leaned into his touch. His thumb traced her lower lip, and Sydney caught her breath as he brushed his lips against hers. She found herself fearing that he would halt this, as he had before. And she waited for him to pull away. But he did not; his mouth only grew more insistent, reassuring, on hers, as he deepened the kiss. The intensity left her reeling, and she parted her mouth, instinctively, just enough to let him in. Just enough to know that this was real, that it was his mouth hot on hers, and that he wasn't going anywhere. Not this time.

He slipped his fingers from her cheek, warm down her neck, over the thin straps of her dress, down to her shoulders, where they stopped. And then his mouth followed, darting tiny kisses over her chin, her neck, until he found the edge of her dress. And then he traced the dipping neckline, agonizingly slow, and she arched against him as his lips moved lower and lower.

Never going anywhere, she thought. He wasn't going to stop, wasn't going to leave her, but —

"This can't - it can't...how could this ever work?" she murmured — something from her subconscious that was always there, at some level, between them.

He pulled away, just slightly, and she could feel the cool, wet path of his lips. "There is a way it can work, Sydney." Back to her, now, and lower. "I promise you, Sydney. There is a way. You just have to trust me."

And back again, his hands sliding around to her back, searching for the zipper.

"How, Vaughn?" Her words half lost in a moan. He never got a chance to answer her, because the locked door burst open in a hail of splinters. A shadowed figure stood in the doorway, gun pointed at Vaughn's head.

"Daddy?!" Sydney gasped. "What are you doing?!" She leapt up from the couch, putting herself between Vaughn and the dangerous end of her father's Walther. Her cheeks were burning as she pulled up the strap of her dress.

"Sydney," Jack's tone was disturbingly businesslike. "Go upstairs, and down the right hallway. There is an exit there, with a car waiting. I'll see you in a few hours." The gun never wavered.

"Dad, I don't understand," Sydney tried to keep the panic from her voice. "What are you doing here? This isn't — I mean, we weren't," she stammered. Her face felt like it was on fire. She took a cautious step forward, and put her hand on her father's arm, gently tried to get him to lower the weapon. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Vaughn standing with his hands raised. His expression was tense and fearful, but showed none of the confusion she felt.

"I would suggest that Agent Vaughn explain my presence here, but I suspect he would lie to you again. Sydney, I will tell you everything, but now is not the time. You are in danger, and I need you to listen to me." Jack shifted his gaze from Vaughn to Sydney for a second, but his attention snapped back as Vaughn lowered his hands.

"Jack, this is a mistake, a misunderstanding — " Vaughn began.

"Get your hands where I can see them, Agent Vaughn. This is not my mistake, and you know it," Jack's voice was still cool, but Sydney could hear the threat.

Vaughn shook his head, "Jack. Don't do this."

"Don't do what, Agent Vaughn? Don't tell Sydney you have been working against her since the day you met? Don't tell her you have betrayed the CIA for years as a mole for Khasinau?" Jack spit the last word — his hand, and the gun, never wavering. Sydney tried to regain control of her spinning thoughts, tried to comprehend her father's explanation.

"Dad, you can't — you can't be serious!" she cried. "Vaughn would never - "

"Sydney, I have evidence that this man has been betraying the CIA, betraying you. But I think all the evidence you need is right there."

She followed his gaze, shifting her eyes away from the gun until they met Vaughn's. And then it was all clear to her, and she knew.

Sydney stepped closer to her father — closer to the only person she could trust now, she thought — and felt the tears welling in her eyes. "How could you?" she whispered. "How could you say all those things and tell me to trust you, when all the while — "

" — he was working against you," her father continued, and the fury in his voice surprised her. "He was jeopardizing your cover, trying to…seduce you. He put you in danger. Put us both in danger." The gun in her father's hand shifted slightly — aim adjustment, she thought — and she followed its potential path. Vaughn's forehead, and she realized that Jack had every intention of killing him.

And despite her anger, the sick feeling of betrayal, she could not let him do it.

"Dad, no," Sydney choked out. "I need to know why." She forced herself to look into Vaughn's eyes, forced herself to believe that she could never trust him again.

"Sydney, it doesn't matter why he — " Jack cut in.

"It matters to me," she said, tried to keep her voice from shaking.

"It shouldn't matter, Sydney!" Her father's voice shook with anger. "You want all these answers, from Agent Vaughn, from your mother. They have no answers! The only thing you've accomplished by chasing after these explanations is your own pain."

And his, too, she knew, but Jack did not mention that. "I know Dad, I know. I just — " She glanced at Vaughn's terrified eyes. " — I just can't watch him die."

"Then I suggest you step outside," Jack responded.

"No! Dad — Dad! Listen! There has to be another way! We can take him back to LA, we can take him to Devlin. He — he has information that the CIA needs, that we need, Dad," Sydney pleaded. "He must know where Will is, and — "

Her eyes widened and she felt a fresh rush of tears as she realized the truth. "Will wasn't working for Khasinau, was he? It was you, all along. Not Will."

Vaughn nodded, but even through her anger she still feared her father would pull the trigger — too much emotion built up within her over the last year to dissipate suddenly. But Jack relaxed his arm slightly, lowered the gun a bit, and his usual emotionless mask began to replace the angry lines of his face.

"Dad, we have to find Will," she said. "He's here all alone, and he wasn't — he was never — " she sobbed. "Who knows what they've done to him? What you've done to him!"

She glared at Vaughn, trembling with anger.

"I know where he is," Vaughn said quietly. "I can help you find him." He took a cautious step toward the door, and halted immediately when Jack snapped his arm — and the gun — back up.

"You're not going anywhere, Mr. Vaughn. You think I don't see what you're trying to do?" Jack asked.

"I'm not try— "Vaughn started, but Jack cut him off with a glare.

Sydney was unable to tell if Vaughn truly wanted to help, or was only trying to get her father to lower his gun. Her eyes were burning with tears, and she couldn't keep her mind from replaying all the moments when she had run to Vaughn for help, for comfort, for everything. How was it possible that he had been lying for so long?

"Dad. Are you sure? I mean…are you really sure about this?"

Jack shot her a quick look, slipped a hand into his suit jacket, and pulled out a manila envelope. Sydney opened it and gasped. She had not expected pictures of this man, lying on the ground with a bullet hole in his head.

"Dad, I don't understand," Sydney began.

"You know who that is," Jack said.

"It's Vaughn's father, after…after Mom," Sydney couldn't make herself say the words.

"My father? What do you mean, my father? I don't understand — " Vaughn's voice was suddenly urgent, and he took an unconscious step forward. Jack made a small gesture with the Walther, and Vaughn froze.

"Show him the pictures, Sydney," Jack's voice had become calm and unemotional again.

Sydney looked up into Vaughn's eyes — he stared back for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the pictures in her hand. She took a single step forward, and held the sheaf of pictures out to him. Tried without success to keep her hand from trembling as he took them from her.

Vaughn's eyes widened in shock as soon as he got a clear angle on the first picture, and he stood completely still for a few moments, gaze fixed on the horrific image. Sydney wasn't so sure she didn't hate him at this point, but her chest still tightened reflexively as he sank slowly to the couch.

"He was on a mission," he whispered, the pictures slipping through his hands and scattering all over the floor. "He was on a mission." Tears formed in his eyes, quickly welling over to slip down his cheeks, but Vaughn made no attempt to wipe at them. He glanced down, instead, at the pictures on the floor, as if he needed confirmation. "He was supposed to be on a mission."

"Mr. Vaughn, you were taken in and lied to by Irina Derevko, just as Sydney and I were," Jack said, voice crisp and unsympathetic. "She told you that your father was working for her side, that he had turned to her organization to help fight corruption in the Central Intelligence Agency."

Vaughn nodded, his eyes dark and pained, tears still flowing freely from them. Sydney suspected that he already understood what had happened — that her father was continuing for her benefit. "She told you that your father faked his death to fool the CIA, so that he could go on a deep-cover mission for Khasinau."

Jack paused, and part of Sydney still wanted to hate him — might hate him forever, if anything had happened to Will — but part of her wanted to walk to the couch, hold him in her arms. "I think — " Jack continued, glancing down at the pictures " — it is obvious now that she has been lying to you all of these years."

"Yes," Vaughn said softly, dully. He covered his face with his hands and sat silently, as if the truth was too much to bear all at once and he had to keep some of it out. Again Sydney had to fight the urge to walk over to the couch and comfort him. But she thought of Will, his face when he told her that he wasn't going to ask any questions, when he said he just loved her. What had he been through because Vaughn betrayed her? She thought of how Vaughn comforted her after Will's "death" and felt sick.

She could not afford to have feelings for this man.

They had to get to Will, make sure he was safe. Then, later, she could think about Vaughn.

"Where is he, Vaughn?" Sydney's tone was sharper than she intended, but it was better that way.

"Who?" he asked, tears still on his cheek, eyes still on the photos of his father's body. Sydney pushed down the sympathy that welled in her; she had to get to Will.

"Will. Where is he, Vaughn?" she tried to keep her voice steady, to keep emotion out of this conversation. He turned his face to her, and she bit her lip at his expression. His pain was written so plainly on his face that it hurt her to look at him. He drew a hitching breath and gestured at the door.

"He's — he's in a room down the hall. She didn't — she didn't hurt him. I don't think she hurt him," he whispered.

"Stand up," Jack ordered. "Show us where she is holding him. And if you think you can mislead us, you are mistaken."

Vaughn sat still and silent, then bent to gather the photos he had dropped. He stacked them neatly, eyes unfocused, and pushed them into the envelope. He closed his eyes, then turned to Jack and Sydney. He held out the photos, and after glancing at her father, Sydney took them from him.

Vaughn moved towards the door, paused with his hand on the knob. "I know…I know you don't have any reason to trust me. But I'm going to make sure that Will gets out of here safely." Sydney tried to see past the pain in his eyes, but it was too much. She couldn't trust him, she shouldn't. But Vaughn was her only link to Will. And Will was her responsibility.

"Sydney?" Jack gave her a questioning glance as he shifted the Walther into a more discreet position. She nodded in response to her father, and motioned Vaughn out the door.

* * *

It was, Will thought, an odd way to take one's first ride in a limousine. His hands were cuffed tight behind his back, feet tied together with something that pinched, mind still a little groggy from a syringe full of something awhile back. Alone, for now, and waiting for something — some person, some resolution of his current situation. The seats were soft, at least.

He shifted around a bit, tried to sit up and see out the window. The tinted privacy window hummed as it slid down, and an accented male voice cut through the darkness, warning him. "Be still, Mr. Tippin."

Will obeyed, sank back into the seat, both frustrated and dizzy. "It would be a whole lot easier to sit still if somebody would just tell me what the hell is going on. What do you people need with me?"

The driver was silent, his only response the hum of the window as it rolled back up.


	8. Credit Dauphine

Credit D**a**uphine

Up until recently, he would have gone home. Everything — outwardly — in his organization was under control, and there were only three field missions pending. A quiet day, and a good day to go home, spend some time with Emily.

But Emily wasn't home — wouldn't ever be home again. And things at his organization — somewhere deep under the calm façade of Credit Dauphine — were spinning out of control. Double agents, triple agents, allegiances bent until they were near the breaking point — coming together in Berlin while he was forced to sit here. Sit quietly and look out over the place as though things were still under control.

The phone trilled, and he was disinclined to answer, until he saw the name of the caller. Ramon Veloso was not someone he could afford to ignore. His pulse picked up as he realized that this call could only complicate his life further.

"Ramon, good afternoon." Sloane paused. "I had not expected to hear from you until next week."

Next week, Ramon was to call with news of his impending membership in The Alliance. Next week, his organization was to be fully under control again, whatever was happening in Berlin sorted out.

"Arvin, we have a problem," Ramon said, and his heart pounded even more in the short silence that followed. "But we should discuss it in person."

They made arrangements to meet in London in two days — a full Alliance meeting, which concerned him more than he let on to Ramon. It was, he reflected, a bad time for double agents.


	9. Berlin

B**e**rlin

Vaughn led them down a narrow, dimly lit hallway — his pace brisk, but still a walk. There were doors on either side of the hallway, and Sydney felt the urge to check behind each, but Vaughn seemed to know specifically where he was going, which made the anger begin to well in her again.

He halted suddenly when he reached what she counted as the sixth door on the right. She listened for any sounds from Will — anything to acknowledge that he was in there, alive and hopefully unharmed — but there was no noise from the room.

Vaughn turned the deadbolt, a gesture from Jack's Walther making it clear that any surprises on the other side would not be acceptable. And there was a surprise when he opened it —

Will was gone.

Jack made a more significant gesture with the Walther, and Vaughn began to stammer.

"I — I swear! This is where they were keeping him. Jack — Jack, I'm not lying to you. This is the last place I saw him. They must have moved him."

Sydney's father relaxed his arm slightly, and Vaughn's expression relaxed as well. "Then I suggest you figure out quickly where it is they might have moved him."

Sydney found the rage inside her growing — she had come too far, uncovered too many half-truths and lies to take any more. She spun around to face Vaughn, catching the lapels of his tuxedo and slamming him against the wall.

"Where?" she growled, her face only inches from his. "Where is he? If you lied to me again…" Close, so close, to his lips — she remembered the heat of his mouth on hers, and shuddered. "If he's hurt in anyway, if you don't find him right now, I swear — "

"Sydney, no, I swear — he was here! I don't — they must have moved him. Irina was — " he gasped, as Sydney shoved him even harder against the wall. The casual mention of her mother's name only reminded her that Vaughn had lied to her lied to her since the beginning. She could feel his heart pounding under her hands, and she wished she knew if it was because he was afraid, or because he was afraid he had been caught in another lie.

"He — there is another place they could have taken him," Vaughn choked out. "The Ops room, in the sub-basement. He could be there." She so wanted to believe that he was telling the truth. Sydney let his lapels go suddenly, pushed away from him.

"Go," she commanded. He tugged his jacket straight, and hesitated for a moment — looking to her and then the gun in Jack's hand — before he turned and started walking down the hallway again.

Vaughn led them through three more hallways and then down two flights of stairs, pace quicker than it had been before. The hallway at the bottom of the stairs was darker than the previous ones were, and the air there felt cold and clammy on her skin.

There was a single door at the end of the hallway, large grey metal, protected with an electronic keypad. She wondered briefly how they were going to get in, because that particular model was tough to hack, and she certainly didn't have any gadgets —

But of course, Vaughn knew the code. His fingers were slow and deliberate through each number, and accurate, because the lock clicked when he finished. She stepped closer to him as he opened the door, desperate to see what was inside — if Will was there.

The room was vast, and as dark as the hallway, lit only by a bank of video monitors at the front. She scanned the shadowy recesses in the back and realized quickly that Will was not here either.

Vaughn seemed to realize it, as well, and he glanced at her — eyes glowing fear in the dim light — before darting over to the video monitors. "We can find him here," he said, desperately. She followed him, forcing down her anger, and began to scan each monitor with her eyes. "These cover every room on the premises."

"Assuming he's still on the premises," Jack said, stepping behind them. She felt panic rising in her with her father's statement. What, if they had taken Will somewhere else, or Vaughn was still lying? She might never find him, might —

Her thoughts were interrupted as light flooded the room. Her mind whirled, for a moment, and she looked at Vaughn's hands, wondered what he had done, but there was no light switch anywhere near them. She spun around, then, with a sudden realization, at the same time as her father.

Standing there, bathed in the light of a desk lamp, was her mother. Older, more gray in her hair, pulled into a tight bun, her face cool and intent — an expression Sydney could not recall seeing before. And a Sig Sauer P226 in her hands, trained directly on her father.

"How nice of you to bring me guests, Michael," she said, her accented English forcing Sydney to remember that this woman was not the mother she remembered. "Now why don't you go tend to Mr. Tippin. I'd like to have a few words with my family."

"I don't know where he — " Vaughn responded.

"Where do you think he would be?" Irina said, voice calm, as if she was talking to a child.

"Right," Vaughn nodded. "I'll take care of him."

Sydney felt hot tears burning in her eyes as he turned and walked out of the room.

He did not look at her as he left.

It had still been a lie, she thought, a fucking lie, the tears streaming down her face. Her attention snapped back to her mother, as Irina stepped closer, her gun still trained on Jack.

"Hello, Jack," Irina purred, accent suddenly absent. "You look…well." Sydney felt sick when she saw the fury on her father's face.

"You bitch," Jack's voice was venomous as he brought his gun up. Time seemed to stretch out impossibly as Sydney saw her mother's Sig Sauer flash. The shot was deafeningly loud, drowning out her scream as she saw her father buckle and fall to the floor.

* * *

Will had been working on loosening the handcuffs — they made it look so easy on TV — when he heard indistinct voices from the front of the limo. He recognized one voice, but it took him a moment to place it. The man from the hallway. The one that had been talking to R.B. The one that knew Sydney.

He could see his shadowed form now, as the-man-who-knew-Sydney leaned in, spoke to the limousine driver, told him he wanted to "have a word with Mr. Tippin. In private." Will heard the driver's door open, and he squirmed upright, suddenly tense.

When he heard the driver's door slam, he realized that Sydney knew some Very Bad People. Will had seen her after she came home from Taipei, terribly bruised.

He jumped when the back door clicked open, and the man-who-knew-Sydney peered in. Will didn't think he looked very intimidating, sandy hair rumpled and green eyes bright in the dome light — but then the man brought his hand forward, and Will saw the pistol. It glinted in the streetlights — oddly pretty — pointed directly at his head.

* * *

Everything flicked into slow motion, as it always did during missions. But this was no mission. This was her father, blood pooling around him already, hand flung out, gun skidding across the floor. Sydney and Irina both leapt for the Walther, but Sydney was closer, and scooped it up, heart racing.

She spun around, training it at her mother's head.

"Give me one reason!" she screamed. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger, Mom." Her voice was quivering, and she had lost all control, might have lost the last person she could trust.

And right now she had nothing left to lose.


End file.
